Poetry Archives

‘This job’s the best I’ve done.’ He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he’d wrought.
A bird was singing. But the craftsman’s thought
Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.

He sighed and stretch’d brown arms. His friend came in
And stood beside him in the morning sun.
The goldwork glitter’d…. ‘That’s the best I’ve done.
‘And now I’ve got a necklace to begin.’

This was at Gnossos, in the isle of Crete…
A girl was selling flowers along the street.